“My small list of chores is full. I have to get in touch with all the students who were involved with Erma Larcher from 1965 to 1968 to discover the name of the man she loved and wanted to marry.”
We’re drinking a few glasses at a muddy wharf, on St Katharine Docks. Figg must abandon me and he slips away in a bit of a rush, shoving a clumsy lug with greasy hair that blocks his way. Rather than worsening the situation, I stop drinking and find a hotel nearby. It’s understood that I have to spend the next day exploring the environs of London.
“I contacted the university again and pretended to be a former student who was looking to organize a meeting with students of the time Erma was there. The secretary gave me three names: those who were at the student office in those years. Bad lu
